Rebellious Love

by Maura Seger

  Seated beside her, his eyes rarely leaving her glowing face, Curran was at once a calming presence and a constant reminder of all that was yet to be. Midway through the meal, Verony started when she realized she had made no preparations for the bedding. Usually it would have been left to the ladies of her family to prepare the bridal chamber, escort the bride to it and ready her for the night before the groom was admitted. But there was no such women present at the keep, and she doubted even as independent a servant as Hilda would have thought to take that duty on herself. A blush darkened her cheeks as she wondered how she and Curran could extricate themselves from the assembly without the accustomed ritual to ease the way.

  She glanced at him worriedly, only to guess by the gleam in his sea-green eyes that he knew perfectly well what was going through her mind. Her blush deepening, Verony dropped her gaze. She kept it assiduously averted until the final course was served and the tables cleared.

  That done, Curran waited barely a decent interval. When each goblet was refilled and the company settled down for some serious carousing, he rose. Drawing Verony with him, he announced matter-of-factly: "My friends, I thank you for sharing our happiness, and I invite you to take your ease here as long as you will. But I bid you excuse my lady and myself. Good night!" —

  The embarrassed rush of blood pounding in Verony's ears prevented her from hearing the appreciative laughter and good-natured suggestions of the company. When Curran lifted her boldly into his arms, she hid her face against his massive chest. The sounds of the hall faded behind them as he carried her rapidly away.

  Pausing only to wrap Verony in a warm cloak held ready by an indulgently smiling servant, he slipped out of the keep and across the bailey. The guards stationed at the gate house nodded respectfully, restraining their ribald comments until their lord, his lady still nestled in his arms, was well past. Walking carefully because of his precious bundle,

  Curran took a narrow path leading deep within a copse of winter-gnarled trees. Free of observant eyes, Verony felt brave enough to look up. Wondering where they were going, she quickly recognized the route that had often taken her to her favorite childhood hideaway.

  In the tiny, sheltered glen Curran stopped. He slid Verony gently to her feet, his arm remaining firm around her waist to hold her to him. His deep, soft voice was close against her ear as he murmured: "I found this place a few days ago. When Hilda mentioned how fond you were of it, I thought perhaps you would not object to spending our first night as man and wife here."

  Verony nodded swiftly, her gaze on the small bower newly erected beneath the spreading oak trees. Made of rough-hewn logs still smelling of sap, the shelter was just large enough for lovers. Curran eased the door opened, then lifted Verony again to carry her over the threshold. Servants had already been there to light the charcoal braziers and perfume the air with the traditional thyme and rosemary. The warm glow of flames reflected off lush floor and wall coverings, piles of silk pillows and the burnished sheen of fox and sable pelts engulfing the bed.

  But it was the sound of gurgling water that caught Verony's attention. She gasped as she realized the bower was patterned on the ancient Viking saunas often built directly over the place where a hot spring emerged from the earth. How many times had she sat beside it, dangling her feet in the mineral-rich warmth and wishing she could submerge herself entirely. Now it seemed that wish would be granted.

  Smiling at the wantonness of her thoughts, Verony turned back to her husband. "Thank you, my lord," she murmured tenderly. "I can think of no more lovely place to become your wife."

  Curran swallowed hard. The loving warmth of her eyes, the sheen of her perfect skin against which her ripe mouth pouted softly, the supple beauty of her body only lightly concealed by her robes engulfed him in a sensual daze. Even as his desire rose hard and urgent, a fierce sense of protectiveness surged through him. Never had a woman invoked such powerful feelings; never had he been so driven to give himself without reserve while treasuring everything a woman had to offer.

  Aware that he could not wait much longer, and determined to make the experience perfect for her, Curran reached for his wife. With consummate tenderness, he removed each bridal garment until she stood before him clad only in the thin chemise, which hid little from his ardent gaze. Through the almost sheer linen, he could see her high-pointed breasts darkened at the tips by rosy areolas already hardening in desire, her small waist he could easily span with his hands, the ripe curve of her hips, and her slender thighs parted by a cluster of red-gold curls.

  Verony bore his scrutiny with pride. She knew he found her desirable and relished the growing confidence he inspired in her own womanhood. Inexperienced though she was, it took only a glance at the lambent flames flaring in Curran's eyes, the faint tremor of his lean, powerful body to realize the extent of his need for her. Made bold by matching passion, she reached small, trembling hands toward the laces of his tunic.

  In the end, Curran had to help her. She could not quite manage the weight of his clothing, and he could not bear to delay. By the time he was stripped down to his shirt and loincloth they were both laughing like happy children bent on some marvelous game.

  The laughter caught in Verony's throat as she gently pushed the shirt from his massive shoulders, reveling in the touch of hair-roughened skin against her finger tips. His chest was covered by a thick mat of ebony curls tapering down his long, sinewy torso to disappear from her sight. For just an instant her gaze lingered on the thrusting bulge still hidden by his loincloth. Cheeks flaming, Verony forced her eyes downward to where dark hair covered his muscled thighs and well-shaped calves.

  The sheer male beauty of her husband so enthralled her that she was barely aware of Curran raising the hem of her chemise. Only when his calloused but infinitely gentle hands stroked the silken smoothness of her buttocks did Verony grasp his intent. A low moan broke from her as he deftly removed her last garment, baring her fully to his regard.

  "So beautiful," he muttered thickly. Cupping her swollen breasts, he drew her to him. Skilled fingers teased her aching nipples as his mouth claimed hers. Helpless to deny him anything, Verony's lips parted for his probing tongue. Curran tasted her sweetness avidly as her hands stroked down the long length of his back to urge his last remaining garment from him. When he understood her desire, he laughed deep in his throat. He was only too happy to oblige his eager wife whose natural voluptuousness delighted him.

  Verony had seen naked men before, even some who were partially aroused. But never had she witnessed the full, driving readiness of one who meant to slake himself within her. A tiny dart of fear spread through her as Curran grasped her hips, pressing her to him intimately.

  Where before there was only rampant desire, now a remnant of virgin dread made Verony stiffen. Instinctively her hands went to his broad chest, trying to push him away. "C-Curran . . . don't. . . please ..."

  He stopped instantly, allowing some slight distance between them. Soothing her with a tender caress, he murmured: "There's nothing to fear, my love. Trust me. I promise, nothing will happen until you're completely ready."

  How could she doubt him, Verony thought dimly, when his every touch set off waves of fire pulsating inside her? A hot core of flame built at the center of her womanhood, radiating outward until her whole body was engulfed.

  Caught between instinctive apprehension and the desperate need for something she could not yet define, Verony gasped. The sound was smothered by Curran's warm mouth as he lifted her onto the bed. Instead of laying her down amid the petal-soft furs, he sat her on the edge, tipping her back far enough so that she reclined with her feet still on the floor and her legs parted. Kneeling before her, he blazed a line of fiery kisses from her ripe breasts set off by velvet nipples down to the silken smoothness of her hips and belly. Shuddering uncontrollably, Verony tried to stop him, but Curran was not to be denied. His tongue tantalized the very core of her desire before stroking the satin skin of her inner thighs.

&n
bsp; A low whimper of mingled dismay and need tore from Verony, inciting Curran even further. Pinning her flailing hands to the furs, he moved to engulf her most sensitive point. Undulating ripples of pleasure surged through her. A sheen of perspiration broke out on her alabaster skin as she desperately fought the vast, irresistible forces overwhelming all sense of consciousness and self. The pressure built and built until at last she could stand no more. Just when the cataclysm of pleasure seemed about to destroy her, she was seized by an explosion of ecstasy that hurled her beyond thought, reason and the last remnant of resistance.

  She had no being apart from Curran, nor he from her. They were one, united as fully and surely as he joined their bodies. No sensation of fear or even pain touched the perfection of their melding. She welcomed the pulsating fullness of his possession joyfully, sheathing him in warm, moist velvet that rippled sinuously along every inch of his massive length.

  Clinging to a thread of reason, only by grace of his intense care for her, Curran moved cautiously. He made absolutely certain she could accept all of him before delving within the haven she so ardently offered. Slowly, tenderly, drawing out her pleasure to the utmost, he brought Verony again to an explosion of fulfillment so intense that she screamed. Only then did Curran at last release himself, finding within her cherished womanhood a welcome more profound than any he had ever known.

  Long, dazed moments passed before he recovered enough to lift her fully onto the bed and cover them both with the fur throws. Purring softly, Verony snuggled against him. Her eyelids fluttered once, twice, then were still. Curran gazed down at her tenderly. His smile lingered as he joined her in dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER 7

  In the full depth of the night, Verony awoke. She stirred slowly, coming reluctantly back to consciousness beneath the warm weight of the furs and her husband's body.

  Curran lay with his arm around her, his chest against her breasts and their legs entwined. Memory returned hesitantly, bringing with it trembling disbelief at her own behavior.

  In all the hard years of work and struggle that had made up her life to that moment, Verony had never suspected her own capacity for passion. Always she had viewed marriage as a necessary evil that, if she was no luckier than her mother and many other women, would put her in thrall to a brutal, callous male.

  That men and women could find mutual pleasure in lovemaking she had heard but scarcely credited.

  Until Curran set off the first stirrings of her body that merely hinted at what was to come. Yet she had still been totally unprepared for the heights of ecstasy he could drive her to or the vast reservoir of emotion he so effortlessly tapped.

  Trembling, she gazed at the man who had revealed a part of herself she had never even suspected might exist. Asleep he looked younger and unexpectedly vulnerable. His rugged features were relaxed, the chiseled lips parted slightly. His hair tumbled in an unruly mass across his forehead, almost to the thick dusting of lashes brushing his high-boned cheeks. One powerful arm was thrown out over the covers, the bunched muscles and corded sinew unmistakable even at rest. The other lay loosely around her.

  Daring greatly, Verony edged the cover down. Her gaze caressed his broad, hair-covered chest as she remembered how pleasant it felt beneath her touch. Almost of its own volition, a small hand reached out to stroke the sun-bronzed expanse.

  When he still did not wake, Verony took hold of all her courage. She was overwhelmed by curiosity about this male being who had so transformed her. Wanting to know as much about his body as he obviously did of hers, she eased the covers from him entirely.

  Sitting up, Verony allowed her gaze to move leisurely over her husband. Long of limb and torso, without an ounce of fat on him, he was broader and more powerfully built than the vast majority of men. Certainly his sheer size and strength gave him an immense advantage both on the training field and in

  battle. The thought of Curran fighting made her wince. In the dim light of the charcoal embers she could see a long, white scar on his chest and another on one thigh. Other, smaller marks gave silent witness to the challenges he had faced and conquered.

  Considering the frequent violence of their lives, men were precariously made, Verony mused as her eyes lingered on his manhood. Even at rest, he looked unusually large. Astonishment warred with anticipation as she wondered how she had ever managed to accommodate him. Her eyes widened as that part of him that had so recently been deep within her stirred. Her breath shortened, and her body felt suffused by heat. Responses only recently wakened flexed again.

  A low chuckle forced her gaze upward even as a dark blush stained her face and throat, down almost to the tips of her rapidly hardening breasts. Curran's gray-green eyes sparkled. He missed no sign of his wife's fascination or her arousal. Chuckling, he said: "Does what you see please you, my lady?"

  Unable to meet his teasing look, Verony nodded mutely. She was rewarded by a deep laugh and the touch of Curran's hands warm on her shoulders. "And you please me, sweetling," he murmured gently, "far more than I would ever have thought possible."

  His obvious sincerity was exactly the reassurance she needed. Grinning mischievously, she said: "If you are so well satisfied with me, my lord, perhaps you would do me some small service?"

  "Anything," he informed her fervently, nuzzling the silken skin of her throat. "You have only to name your desire, my love. I will endeavor my utmost to fulfill it."

  "Good," Verony purred, hands stroking perilously close to the seat of his passion. Abruptly she declared: "I'm starved. Is there anything to eat?"

  Chagrined but undeniably amused, Curran laughed. "Trust me to take care of all your appetites, my dear." He gestured toward a corner of the bower where a small table stood. "You should find some refreshment there."

  Heedless of her nudity, she scampered from the bed. On a cloth-covered tray were joints of roasted meat, cheeses, breads and small bowls of custard dusted with precious cinnamon. An ewer of wine and another of water stood nearby beside two goblets.

  Gleefully Verony turned to tell Curran of the bounty only to discover he had left the bed and was happily submerged in the mineral spring. Propped up against the natural rock formation that had been left in place when the bower was built, he grinned at her lewdly. "Bring my supper over here, wench. And be quick about it!"

  Falling into his game, Verony obeyed. With all the self-possession of a fully dressed serving woman, she carried the tray to him. Deftly wielding the carving knife, she quickly sliced the joints before filling both goblets with a mixture of wine and water. Curran, still mistrustful of the more potent brew, made sure his was pale indeed.

  Slipping into the spring beside him, she plucked a slice of capon and held it to his mouth. "I hope you will find the service to your liking, my lord," she purred throatily.

  Curran chewed and swallowed the meat without taking his gaze from her. What he saw delighted him. Her indigo eyes glowed and her skin had a pearly sheen an experienced man knew came from only one source. Despite the heat of the spring, her nipples were hardened peaks tempting his taste far more than any food. He sighed silently, resolving to give her more time to recover from her first experience with a man before initiating her into the long delights of lovemaking.

  "This spring," Curran asked in an effort to distract himself, "has no one used it before?"

  "A long time ago," Verony said, settling down in the deliciously soft water, "this was a place of worship for the pagan tribes. There is still a belief among the people here that it has healing properties. About a quarter mile behind us there is a cave where the spring also surfaces. The village ill are frequently taken there, or water is gathered in ewers and brought to them."

  Hesitating, she added: "Father Dermond naturally doesn't approve of pagan worship. But he tries to understand the people's feelings and make them part of Christian worship. He has blessed the spring and water taken from it, sometimes even using it in the church."

  She feared Curran might be shocked by what
some would regard as sacrilege, but he merely nodded. "Father Dermond is a wise man. The old ways

  cannot be completely forgotten, nor should they be. Especially while England was under interdict, our people needed all the comfort they could get."

  A shiver rippled through Verony as she remembered those terrible years, making up most of her life, when the ineptitude and mulishness of King John so sparked the Pope's anger that the entire realm was deprived of holy sacrament. Only in the last two years had priests again been allowed to say Mass and give Communion.

  The people were, of course, grateful to have such rituals restored, but Verony could not help but notice a certain diminishing of fervor in their worship. After the initial terror at the interdict passed and it was discovered that life went on, some began to wonder if everything the Church had been telling them was actually true.

  For all that the Pope was supposed to represent God on earth, his removal of grace seemed to have no real effect. The sun still rose, the rains still came, crops grew and children were born. There was no more pestilence than usual, or reports of devils sighted. No dreadful omens appeared in the sky, nor did the earth shake as it had been said to do occasionally in ancient times.

  Inevitably, as people began to doubt the true power of their faith, they came also to question other fundamental beliefs that had guided their lives. There was a new spirit abroad in the land. From the great earls such as Curran right down to the peasant toiling in the field, men and women were asking themselves if some change might not be called for in the social order.

  So far, this burgeoning movement was manifest only in a multitude of little ways. Some nobles, including the d'Arcys, had refused to meet King John's latest excessive demands for taxes. They said he had already wasted far too much money in his unsuccessful wars on the continent and would do better to attend to the welfare of his realm. The braver members of the merchant class, taking courage from this example, were also withholding funds.